Homeward Bound
by Mayfly
Summary: Home's the place, that when you have to go there, they have to take you in. Spikefic speculation for S7


Homeward Bound  
By Mayfly  
Rating: Tame, I tell you, tame  
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox, not my toys, but I'm gonna play   
with them anyway.   
Spoilers: Fanwank for Season 7  
Summary: Home's the place that, when you have to go there,   
they have to take you in.  
A/N: the more I think about it, this may end up being a   
prologue to another fic I'm writing. Who knows...  
  
  
  
***************  
Homeward Bound  
***************  
  
  
Night had finally come to London, and the rail stations   
were bustling with revelers trying to catch the last trains   
out of town. The tourists had long vanished for the night.   
Paddington Station had once again been turned over to the   
natives.   
  
A group of American Students huddled over a map,   
overstuffed backpacks never leaving their side as they   
scurried to find shelter for the night while a throng of   
drunken would-be hooligans sporting Arsenal shirts tried   
their best to harass a poor bloke whose only crime was   
donning Chelsea colors. And if you looked close enough, you   
could spot a trio of Rubczek demons playing a game of   
hearts in the shadows.  
  
At quick glance, London hadn't changed much in the thirty   
years he'd been gone. Sure, many of the nuances had   
changed. The angry punk rock of the Seventies had long   
yielded to the throbbing sounds of techno. Cell phones had   
become de rigueur and the euro loomed unwelcome on the   
horizon.   
  
But this London hardly felt like home. Hadn't in decades.   
His old haunts had either been leveled by the Blitz or had   
long been swept away in the name of industrial progress.   
Everything seemed harsh and bright. For a moment, he longed   
for the day of gaslights and cobblestone streets.  
  
Home or not, it was a place to start. After months of   
meandering his way though Africa and Europe, surviving on   
the kindness of both the living and undead, it was time for   
Spike to finally start the final leg of his journey and   
make his way home, wherever that was. He'd wandered long   
enough like a ghost, floating through the world without   
ever truly being seen or leaving his mark. He'd been a   
phantom long enough and it was finally time to rejoin the   
land of the living.  
  
He glanced briefly at the timetables on the wall and made   
his way to the ticket counter. Digging into his front   
pocket, he pulled out a wad of crumpled bank notes and   
handed them to the cashier. "Single to Bath," he quietly   
requested as he waited for his ticket and change.  
  
Slinging his pack over one shoulder, he made his way toward   
the platforms. He easily blended into the crowd. Another   
ragged traveler among the herd of backpackers criss-  
crossing Europe. His trademark black attire had been traded   
for convenience. His black boots were long gone, and more   
comfortable hiking boots had taken their stead. His slim   
black jeans had been replaced with a faded pair of blue   
Levi's he'd won in a card game in Tel Aviv, and he was   
drowning in a marl colored sweater he'd found abandoned in   
a hostel somewhere along the way. It was a size or two too   
big, and its cuffs were frayed at the wrists. But as the   
autumn chill started to settle across Europe, it had   
quickly become a prized possession.  
  
He wasted no time finding his train. Last one out for the   
night, it was half-empty. Suited him fine as the last thing   
he wanted to do was stomach another crowd. He wasn't sure   
if the chip in his head still worked, but it didn't take   
much these days for a blinding headache to blossom behind   
his eyes. Tonight, the guilty culprit had been the bustling   
cacophony from the city around him that had jarred his   
senses.  
  
Finding a pair of vacant seats, he flung his heavy backpack   
into the seat next him and hoped the others would take the   
hint and find a different place to sit. The damn thing   
seemed to grow heavier with each detour of his travels. But   
it was his only connection to the rest of the world these   
days. Two pairs of clean socks, his long, black t-shirt,   
and an extra set of jeans.   
  
He'd tucked away a weathered copy of Inferno under his heap   
of clothes. Quite fitting, he'd thought when he found it in   
a used bookshop a few weeks back. Dante had nailed Hell   
right on the head. Made Sunnydale and its supposed   
Hellmouth seem like a five-star spa. It wasn't the fire and   
brimstone that had been preached in sermons for ages. No,   
Hell was a personal journey that was cold and barren. It   
was a lonely void where you froze into a solid mass with   
only your past transgressions as company, where you hope   
that you, too, will be devoured by the beast just so your   
suffering would end. He'd spent the past few months there   
enduring his own personal Inferno, and the tattered book   
had become his passport. He'd seen the inner circle and it   
was high time he climbed out.  
  
Lost in his thoughts, Spike hadn't realized the train had   
left the station until he gazed out to the blackened   
countryside. "Ticket, please," the uniformed agent asked   
drawing him from his reverie. Without saying a word, the   
vampire automatically dug into his coat pocket and pulled   
out the little orange card from the pages of his forged   
passport. Long after the agent had punched the card and   
made his way to the next rail car, he clung to the   
passport. On paper, he was a person, but in actuality he   
still felt as real as the forgery in his hands. Sure, he   
walked and talked like any other on the train. But no   
matter of paperwork would change the fact that he was still   
a demon, a monster with a history littered with murderous   
mistakes and unforgivable stupidity. Soul or not, he   
couldn't deny his true existence.   
  
Exhaustion had become a familiar bedfellow and hunger a   
constant companion. He was nowhere near the skeletal stage,   
but his clothes hung looser on him by the day. The pint of   
bitter and plate of curry in London had taken the pangs   
away, but it had been nearly a fortnight since he'd had any   
blood and his stomach roiled in empty protest. Unlike the   
Hellmouth, reliable supplies of blood had been few and far   
in between. Wandering as a nomad had only made the search   
harder. Granted he could have easily found a meal of rats   
deep in the bowels of the Underground, but he hadn't sunk   
that low yet. Damn it, if he was going to masquerade as a   
human, then he was going to feed like one. Only animals fed   
on vermin. He'd gone to sleep hungry many a night, and he   
knew he could hold out a little longer.  
  
Like clockwork, the snack cart made its way down the aisle.   
Nothing ever sounded appealing - overpriced crips and   
tasteless chocolate bars. "Something from the trolley?" the   
portly employee asked. Too bad they didn't sell a pint of   
O-negative. For that, he'd easily hand over a king's   
ransom.  
  
Spike fished a golden pound coin out of his pocket and   
settled for something on the menu. "Tea, please," he   
requested, waiting for his change.   
  
For as pricey at is was, the steaming drink hardly lived up   
the label emblazoned on the side of the paper cup. Yes,   
technically it was 'leaf tea.' It was warm, and wet. But   
after that, it was a tasteless substitute for such an   
English mainstay. More like floor sweepings steeped in hot   
water. Couldn't believe he had just wasted nearly a pound   
on the drink. But he was too tired to complain, and he   
savored its warmth as it permeated though the cup and   
warmed his chilled hands. Blowing away the steam, he took a   
sip and settled back into the seat while the tea cooled   
just a bit further.  
  
If only life could be so simple to complain about a bad cup   
of tea, he mused to himself. It was the least of his   
worries. The train would be pulling into Bath in no time,   
and he wasn't quite sure he was ready to face the scariest   
part of his journey. A twinge of icy dread suddenly knotted   
his stomach as he thought about reconnecting with his past.   
How do you atone for over a century of inexcusable fuck   
ups, for betraying your loved ones and vanishing without a   
trace? At one time he thought that knowledge would come as   
a package deal with the soul. But no, as he learned along   
the way from Africa, it was something that came from   
within. Epiphanies were never free, he added with a swipe   
through his tangled, grimy hair, the last of its platinum   
cut off six weeks ago by a half-blind demon in Budapest.   
  
But had nowhere else to turn, and he was running out of   
options. For the moment, Bath seemed far less intimidating   
than Sunnydale.  
  
God, he was tired. His whole body ached for even a few   
minutes of sleep, and it was so tempting to rest his head   
on the rattling window and doze for just a few minutes.   
But the last thing he wanted to do was drift off. That's   
when the dreams came. They always did. Haunted memories   
that came unbidden, grotesque reminders of what he'd   
squandered. It had been months since he'd heard her voice.   
But in the folds between reality and sleep he could still   
hear it full of fear and seething anger.  
  
**"Ask me again why I could never trust you?**  
  
His eyes snapped open, and Spike awoke with a strangled   
gasp as tepid tea sloshed on his lap. "Bloody hell," he   
muttered to himself as he surveyed the mess and tried   
desperately to draw as little attention to himself as   
possible. Fortunately, the other occupants in the car were   
either asleep themselves, too inebriated to care, or lost   
in their own private little worlds.   
  
He didn't know how long he'd been asleep. Long enough for   
the memories to find him, that's for sure. With a shaking   
hand, he absently took a sip from the paper cup. Cold and   
bitter, like everything in his life these days.   
  
It didn't take long before the trail pulled into the Bath   
station. Spike crushed the empty paper cup and tossed it in   
his seat as he rose and looped his arms through his   
backpack and exited the compartment.   
  
The stars were out in full force. There was not a cloud in   
the moonless sky. The wind had picked up since he'd left   
London, and he zipped up the front of his second-hand coat   
to ward off the biting chill. In the dark he made out the   
clock by the empty ticket window - half past one - and   
found the faded city map secured behind a thick, scratched   
layer of plexiglass. Setting his pack on the ground, he   
dug out the copy of Dante and retrieved the torn bit of   
envelope he'd been using as a bookmark. "9 Rockliffe Road,"   
the fragment read. End of the road, or just the beginning.   
He wasn't sure. Spike squinted and wished for a little   
better lighting as he tried to find corresponding street on   
the map.  
  
Target sighted, he tried his best to memorize the   
directions, grabbed his pack and started the final leg of   
his trek. This one would be taken on foot. He strode past   
the lone taxi outside the station and walked into the   
darkened night. Part of him wanted to prolong the   
inevitable. The other welcomed the last precious moments of   
solitude. He wouldn't call it brooding, but he was getting   
damn close.  
  
Bath had gone to bed, her shops and local pubs closed for   
the night. In the distance the abbey rose above the Roman   
spa, keeping silent watch over the town below. Even now he   
had faint memories of visiting the town when he was a small   
child. Family holiday if he recalled correctly, doing the   
Victorian pilgrimage to take in the waters and all that   
rot.   
  
The streets were all but empty, and the faint scent of   
burning coal from a fireplace wafted through the breeze. A   
stray ginger-striped cat darted from a yard, paused briefly   
on its journey to look him over before vanishing back into   
the foliage. Most of the windows were darkened for the   
night, but he could easily make out the flickering blue   
glow of a television behind a pulled shade.   
  
He kept time to the quiet cadence of his footsteps echoing   
against the pavement. A dog barked plaintively in the   
distance. It was such a stark contrast to the perpetual   
motion and roaring chaos that was London. Not a single vamp   
or demon in sight, he thought to himself as he passed a   
small cemetery.   
  
Thirty minutes and one wrong turn later, he finally found   
his destination. The front garden was small, choked by   
unruly ivy and weeds, and the curtain in the window   
obscured the front room Not a single light was on. It's   
occupant, no doubt, sleeping like the rest of the town.  
  
Spike paused before heading up the front steps. If his   
palms could have, they would've been drenched in a clammy   
sweat. He swallowed against a parched throat. Four more   
steps, how hard could that be? Facing the trials in Uganda   
had been easy in comparison. Facing his past in a few   
minutes, now that was terrifying.  
  
He clutched the rail for a moment before making the ascent.   
Could it be as easy as knocking on the door and saying,   
"Hi, Dad, I'm back! Found a soul on the way home, can I   
keep it?" and return like the lost, prodigal son? He'd be   
lucky if he weren't staked on site. Hopefully the old man   
would welcome him in just as he had the last time he turned   
up on his doorstep shivering like a drowned rat.   
  
His hands flexed nervously as he raised up a fist to   
knocked on the door. Finally, after a deep breath, he   
gently knocked and waited. Honestly, he didn't know what to   
expect. But after receiving no response, he wrapped his   
knuckles against the door a second time, his stomach   
tightening in a knot as a light flipped on inside.  
  
Someone trudged down a flight of stairs. He could hear a   
heartbeat draw closer until it was directly behind the   
door. Spike swore he could feel an eye bear down on him   
through the tiny peephole. The front light blinked on, and   
the door opened.  
  
"Spike?" Rupert Giles incredulously asked through a yawn.   
  
His voice suddenly lost, he stuffed his hands in his front   
pockets. Glancing anxiously at his boots before turning his   
gaze back at the watcher, he quietly asked, "Can I come   
in?"  
  
Spike wasn't quite sure what had transpired between them.   
Glasses nowhere in sight, the older man squinted at him as   
though shocked by the wraith standing on his stoop. Maybe   
it was pity. Perhaps patience. But there were no stakes, no   
angry words of condemnation followed by a slam of the door.   
Instead, Giles tightened his blue terry robe and nodded his   
head.   
  
"Come in, Spike," he offered as he stepped out of the way.  
  
The unseen and impenetrable barrier was lifted from the   
doorway with those three little words. He knew his voice   
would fail him. Once again he found himself blessed by the   
mercy of others, knowing it was a debt that he may never be   
able repay. Silently nodding his thanks, Spike crossed over   
the threshold and closed the door behind him. 


End file.
